Modern Romanticism

The aspect of romance, divided between the heartening and the thoughtful.

Chapter III – Excerpt – “A Pattern in Love” – Romantic Work – 11/14/2019

November 14, 2019

Place a man at his lowest, and he knows to stare at the sun. He knows to stare at the brightest sight that burns away his own past, his own guilt to his actions. Place a man at his lowest, and he begs to be forgiven. He has offered a diamond, poured his monetary worth into it, to show that his heart is larger than when he stands.

To see of a man, his heart, then to know of a man, his mind, is the simple act of being attentive. To be ignorant, should be countered with that attentiveness. To a woman and her curiosity, mark a man among your mind as what you’ll forever desire to understand.

Love does not steady itself, though grasps the beloved with two strongest of hands, and keeps her grounded, with roots that will spread to keep an empire upright. It is only an Emperor to his negligence, who will cause that empire to crumble, because he had forgotten what was truly special within it. He should not make his Empress weep, out of failing to provide attention, for her cries will echo as thunder, and rip through the walls to turn was once gold into dust.

Love is the emotion that turns life into the lifetime, hurling even depression, the focus on a past, to its own grave, six feet below.

For love, from a man to a woman, finds sweetness in her, when there was only a hardness and a disbelief that it ever existed. “You are beautiful,” says a man of love to his beloved, and his woman agrees with his words. “You have every right in the world to weep,” says a woman of love to her beloved, and her man agrees with her words.

It is love, that challenges arrogance. It is arrogance, that is blind to love.

Like with what we see for Adrian, in this moment of blindness, to see what is fading.

Love stretches, indeed, it does; though, it also falls back to a home, to where it began, among places where people will sigh, both in grief and in pleasure.

Adrian now watches, in this moment, his Catherine, wandering away from his vision, perhaps to a shore where she may sing. His uncertainty is his error, his moments spent among doom and failure. To a man and his duty to decide, where is his leadership if not to decide for the undecided. And then, to a woman of his choice, for it is always a choice, what malady of weakness makes him still undecided for eternal marriage?

He says these words to himself:

“In the apocalypse of my mind, there is but a rose that I keep tending, so that what I see is never the entirety. Catherine is that rose, and I keep each petal upright, to see her hair falling low, as loose, though never wilting along with the rose. The rose will never die, will never wilt, because I tend it. But, the understanding of my mind being ill, is never a place of my full understanding.”

An illness to the mind; and it is a wonder he’s not much surrounded himself in the daylight of the outdoors. He’s enclosed himself, has adopted the pale complexion of a one without interest in seeing light. He played a piano with his eyes closed, and had forgotten what the weather was, out-of-doors.

It should be appropriate now to mention where our tale is set.

Among the wastes of a revolution, nearly months or perhaps nearly moments after we set paupers upon thrones, after we set pauper upon dethroning thrones, we have our world. It is where Adrian lives, in France, seemingly in an untouched building that shows no markings of gunfire, nor of cannonball blasts.

Where the remains of barricades still clog the streets with all the ruined part of buildings and carriages, here we have it.

Did Adrian hear the commotion?

He did hear it.

Did Adrian listen to it?

It was not the case, for his heart too much distracted him.

It is here noted, as it should as well be remembered, that the heart that flutters with love, will always be louder than the drums of revolution. Each thud of the heart is a heard one, though usually an ignored one. We are in fear of death, or we are excited to love. Though, we may find an ending to be exciting, or may find love terrifying.

Adrian heard his heartbeat, and he came running to it.

He once heard Catherine’s call, her body upon a bed, and went to kiss her hand and touch her cheek. He went to kiss her mouth, and soon withdraw himself when he smelled her fear, her state of exhaustion, when she said the words, “I do not want our love to fall apart, our hearts to break, because of your mind. Please, Adrian, do not feel your guilt when I say these words, if you love me.”

Another kiss, and she fell back asleep.


Rewrite – Novel – “A Pattern, In Love” – Romantic Work – Chapter I – 11/5/2019

November 5, 2019

She has controlled her beauty with evenness. Symmetry within every detail, and symmetry, especially among her smile. I have asked myself a question, if love would be the thing to hold her hand, or perhaps I have, as a flawed man, all the while.

I speak these words to resonate myself with guilt. It is an emotion without kindness, without reprieve, without the placement of forgiveness rarely given by another. I could weep. I could very well weep. Though, will a hand ever come to me? To pry my shoulder with even the firmest and boldest touch, would suffice. I ask questions, to state whether or not her beauty has also ever sufficed itself, not in terms of attraction, though to know if it has been warm enough. To know, if she has met comfort with her own attraction to it. To know, if she has met love with her own attraction to it.

Love blesses me, has made my heart famous, as though each string connected is one from a violin, and my heart is now the composer, with a thunderous command bellowing from each thump of its beat.

I am inward, and outward, with my eyes closed. I see the void in myself, and the vision of a woman, of whom I love, in reality.

He is inward, and he is outward, a man named Adrian, with barely a surname to be worth mentioning. Strings of his heart, the idlest of ones, are plucked, alike the petals of a tulip, making sensations aloud that reverberate among his form. Those idle strings, are plucked, are like petals, are have a scent, an aroma, much alike the strands to a woman’s hair. His surname, however, should be mentioned, likening itself to the reader’s satisfaction: it is Gautier.

He plays a piano before himself, drawing tunes upon the empty air, making smiles out of his own mouth at occasional moments. Love draws out of his own breath, in fewest words, “What is taking her so long to arrive?”

He is a Frenchman, with a face so rugged, and eyes without color for they are shielded by their lids.

He sees only darkness.

A piano before him, words upon the thoughts of love, and an unmentioned detail is of him swaying his head side to side, as though listening attentively to each thudded key against the wood.

Loneliness is to a man, as shocking as it is to a man, as bewildering as it is to a man, unlike how it is for a woman, which is a normal occurrence. A woman’s heart is a blank slate, before love dots it with the darkest of color. Darkest of brown, or deepest black, is poured upon a woman’s white heart, as her innocence is erased, and womanhood is embraced.

Ah, so man is to be lonely only for a singular reason, when loss weighs heavily upon his upper brows. Enough to close the eyes of this man, so that all he sees is the darkness, and the light that beams in through the open window before him.

He sees nothing, and we can describe nothing of his surroundings. How would it, dear reader, that we are able to describe what our character, Adrian, is unable to witness, for himself? Surely, it is impossible. It would not make sense to do it.

Love is a place of music, whether there be sighs in repetition, or faces marred by tears; we have love, we have its holy emotion in two places, as the sun or the rain. Sun, for joy. And the rain, for grief. Happiness and turmoil are each seeped into love’s domain, and as the rain weighs us, drenches us, as our clothes droop us, we are dried by the sun. We are loved by the sun, in our happiness, and we welcome its warmth. And, we are made miserable by the rain, whenever the rain moves us into depression.

All this relates to Adrian, by what has made his heart flow between joy and sorrow, when one beautiful woman enters into the chamber.

Short Story – Excerpt – “Museum of Muses” – Chapter II – Romantic Work

October 29, 2019

His smile is a pile of crude teeth, though this Charles Havier, our pauper to this tale, is viewing this woman with such admiration, that he sends forth that smile as though he were unlike himself; that is, as unlike a pauper, as unlike an emaciated man thought by many to simply be a drunk.

He watches her glide, upon two legs that act as if they are treading upon water. As if the path beneath her is making marks into it, by her gait, with hips that rock from side to side, adding charm to what Charles sees.

She is a beauty, as we have described of her. Tresses alike the bark of a tree, raining down from a scalp to her firm and bared shoulders. A simple gleam, in the form of a highlight is there from the warmth. From the sun, that creates its clashes against her porcelain skin, we see ivory emerge from it. Though, her calmness is like feathers upon a naked bird. Her calmness, great in this moment, though she shouldn’t be in any fear. It is merely a sort of calmness that is exuded by her temperament, that has been tempered by a comfortable upbringing.

Is she from the scene of Hollywood, out on some patrol away from the stage, dressed in something deemed to be “unusual attire” by those passersby who could recognize her face? Are there even those who’d notice this woman, should she be famous, by the bulbous shape and outline of her pinkish lips? Such people with an obsession with fame, when fame is an obsession, itself! Admiration is there for the portrait, though we describe her further for the sake of conjecture, and nothing more.